Failure
Failure is the first episode of Ultraman Touch. Cast *Adriatus Nikvoch *Ultraman Touch Prologue Painted in the setting of a classical, typical fairytale. A pure, unsullied child is taunted to choose between decisions, both injurious choices, the lesser of two evils. Prancing around in circular motions around his fragile body is an orb of soft, white light, gleaming aimlessly without doubt, shimmering as if it were to consciously say, "Hey, pick me!" How vigorous, indeed. The other, though silent at the cornerside, sits as if seeking attention, bolts crackling in bleak darkness, enticing the young, frail child to move in, closer, and closer. All the wordly desires, all his ephemeral aspirations, clasped in the palm of a hand. And with just a slight touch, the boy was pulled into a world of which he never wished for. A world of joy, built upon pain. One "...and that is how it all ended, children." Draped in a ragged coat, sat an aged man, lifting the edges of an ancient book, in a state oblivious to the trials of time. He rested in a library of varying works, of which was once his personal hideout, a form of escapism from reality. Now though, it was a refuge where he peacefully relived old memories. "Such a short story, yet a complicated tale..." a pre adolescent child sat cross legged, thinking deeply into the implied meaning behind such a ambiguous fairytale. Pretentious as it might have been, he eventually gave up on figuring out its moral value, dumbfounded, with a spike of frustration. "You really are an idiot, aren't you...? The moral purpose captured is the basic choice of good over evil, you buffoon! Hmph!" A girl the boy's age retorted at his dimwittedness, perfectly capturing the essence of said tale in one go, of which the storyteller nodded to with gratifying approval. As if his last words, he gently put a face close to theirs, muttering a line of advice to keep for the future. Being human is not a sin, choosing the path is what shapes you. The children were left with questionable looks over the sudden confession, as the elderly man chuckled with satisfaction, breathing a final gust of musty air, before passing on to eternity. Two Unknown Location, Siberia (Unknown Year) "Books are certainly the greatest source of literary knowledge..." In the middle of a desolate storage room stood a young adult, sandwiching novels of varying degrees of intellectual content, clad in colors from both ends of the spectrum, signifying a topical difference. With a blow of air, dust gathered and lined over the years scattered around, stale and unkempt works transformed, into publications fresh out of the press. He decided to read up on the first book clothed in green, a fairytale from ages forgotten. The second, a compilation of excerpts from religious texts, was kept away for a later time. "A Danish folktale, 'The Angel'..." Dating back to the 1800s, sitting in the palm of his hand was something that had caught his eye, a literary work hidden in obscurity. A page was torn away at the back, shreds of paper being the only remnants. Scanning through the book, the man scoffed with disbelief, forcing it back to its rightful place, a shelf filled to maximum capacity. "If only the divine truly existed... utter nonsense..." Three Ural Mountains, Russia (1939) Boots dragged across endless plains of pure snow, a white blanket that shrouded the land beneath. Coughing and heaving continuously, a frail boy battled against frigid weather that chilled him to the bone, teeth grinding in torment under a bleak situation. Temperatures drooped to sub-zero conditions, mistral gales constantly pushing his fragile body to its absolute limits. "Should I...?" Breathing heavily, the boy glanced over at an enigmatic device attached to the wrist of his left arm, comprised of several meters and indicators, some going haywire. A display with a fluctuating glowing line moved in a dangerously irregular fashion, as if measuring his vitals. He couldn't survive any longer if such conditions persisted, considering the burden he had to carry upon his shoulders. Left with no choice, with the spin of a gear and a flash of light, he disappeared, leaving behind a beaded necklace instantly covered by raining snow. ... Lying peacefully upon a fluffy mattress, was a young child no more than twelve, dreaming in a restful state of mind, as if one of the deceased passing on to a spiritual paradise. This expression quickly changed to one of worry, a troubled, wrinkled forehead, with beads of cold sweat trickling down, before he awoke with a unscheduled fright. What a terrible nightmare, he thought to himself. Clutching tightly to his hand a cross, the boy sighed. Restless nights had plagued his mental state for the past few days, recurring terrors sprouting from within his mind; this horrific dream was one of the worst to date. What was the cause? This matter could be put aside for another day, however, as today an eventful occasion was about to happen; his birthday, the first ever to be celebrated since he was conceived, a moment in time deemed important to himself, for the short amount of time he had grazed this planet. The boy was an adopted child, bred by lovely guardians, who had given everything they could in order to raise him to such high standards. He had never questioned his own origins, the past of which he had lived once before, the life preceding his arrival to this desolate region, a pseudo-town surrounded by a lovely pine forest. Thus, he never had the time, nor did he ever consider the possibility of his birth parents. Rushing down to the bath area, he hurriedly swapped the PJs for a fresh, clean set of clothing, straight out of the dryer. Staring at his meekly self in a pristine mirror, he held the cross up to eye level, observing its very structure. Such a habit of his was a daily ritual; the cross was the only accessory which had accompanied him since the start of his journey, thus the need to treasure it with proper care. Held with a firm grip, the antique cross shone under a bright light, an enlightening aura encompassing its very being. And as the boy looked yet again into the mirror, he saw a reflection of his true self, and laughed softly, oblivious to its true nature. A holy artifact, held in the hands of a demon. Four "Ah, Adriatus my boy! Today we will be going out to shop!" An older man, approximately reaching his middle ages, spoke with a delighted tone. "Father, it comes by tomorrow, if I may suppose?" Adriatus inquired, regarding the reasoning behind his father's intentions to choose this particular day for a shopping spree. He did not seem to lean towards such a frivolous activity, the act of spending one's hard earned money on items of disputable use. However, today looked like an exception. The boy, Adriatus, seemed to have formed some idea in his mind, and his father's words had to confirm his suspicions. "Indeed, tomorrow's the day: of which we spend your first birthday, ever!" Birthdays, did these dates carry any particular meaning? A day of which one celebrates his coming upon this world, a physical blessing upon this earth by those above, the beginning of desperate journeys and hardships. Commemorative festivities proven worthless as time flows by, of which one forsakes till death draws its hand closer. He did not get it, what was the need for such an occasion? Regardless, Adriatus smiled back at his father, acknowledging the man's requests. He suddenly felt the urge of a nauseated distaste. Five Who are you? A reflection of naught. What lies inside of you, have you ever gave thought? It is the Time of End, life merciless and cold. And upon counted heads, everything then unfolds. Six Foul appendages reached into a creeping, dim habitat. Luscious locks bleached to a contrasting white, crackling fingers extending in an unnatural series of movements. It laced a menacing pair of eyes, shifting a pounding gaze striking fear in the hearts of mortal men; the arrival of a wretched soul, enveloped in its coal black outline, blending into a cryptic darkness. It seemed bored, almost drained of life. It needed a form of entertainment. It needed, toys. A puppet that was easy to lure, bring in with earthly desires unfathomable. One that could be enticed, raveled in an existence much more... human. The angel crackled. Seven The divine number appointed upon mortals, what was it again? Adriatus walked concrete tiles, his small steps resounding with the clank and clamour of chirping, pans atop blazing fires, hammers pounding against nails. To his left was the humble craftsman's wood shop, from which the family would purchase their cedar, pine and cypress from. To his right, the bustling market, which was where they would gather the food for the meek party. "Collecting those edible seeds again, mister Adoshua?" "My, the people have been complaining about the quails. Impertinent munters, indeed." "Well, one can say that. How are our foodstuffs?" "Going well. Nice to see your boy aging another year as well!" Adriatus just hid behind the back of his father. He had never liked Adoshua, a striking fellow, bearing palls of a suffocating aura. The way he smiled, the way he looked at him with those peepers, ruby glazes of pupils that strikingly pierced into his soul. A terrifying thought. "Yes, he's now one! Counting in terms of the day we found him from, though." "He may be one, but your child certainly is more. Thank you for your patronage once again, mister Nikovoch." Passing a cloth bag painted in mundane beige, a creak of a smile split upon the merchant's face. He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. Eight "Is he the one?" "The chosen one?" "Lit by a flame but purged by shadows?" Adriatus strolled alongside his father, who was humming away a melodious tune and rather energised for the remainder that left of the day. Such peaceful days, he hoped were meant to last. The boy opened up with a smile mixed with emotion. "Sugar, cinnamon, flour and all! We got everything for the perfect cake!" "Indeed." "I'm so glad we were able to spend time together today, Adriatus. Even commemorate your coming!" "Mom would be glad to hear that as well, Dad." The man stopped right in his tracks, shaken by the sudden confession. "That's the first time you've called me Dad in a while." "It's only fitting." Both father and son broke into an uninterrupted giggle, then continued their everlasting stroll. Such peaceful days, he truly hoped were meant to last. Nine I spy, with my little eye. A blessed boy, celebrating a joyous occasion. He looks so... delighted. Such heresy... can't continue. ... Why? For what reason am I damned in this pitiable state? Am I not allowed to find peace within myself? Am I not allowed to enjoy the trivialities in life? Am I only banished to questionable fates and a wretched destiny? Why, does he get everything, everything that I can only dream of? This is unfair. The world is unfair. Such conduct, such frivolous conduct... ...will be met with the appropriate consequences. Ten "It's time for wake, my child." A familiar, hoarse lamentation, sort of a husky gruff. The silhouette of a person bent by his back, leaned forward and obstructed his view. Adriatus laid on a stiff block of stainless steel, hands tied and knees bound with manila rope. This shadow crept above him with a dubious chuckle, yet the boy could not sense its presence in the proximity. The being vanished into crackling black flames, as another of distorted stature set foot into the enclosure. His crimson gaze followed throughout the dimly lit cage, comet trails blazing in a silent manner as it scrutinized the environment. Like a wild creature setting its eyes on prey, it found the boy, and started its approach. Adriatus immediately took notice, vocal chords raging with ruffled screams as much as the muffler of a cloth stuffed into his mouth allowed his voice to travel within the steel prison. "Now now, my child, you shouldn't struggle. Your anger does not produce the righteousness your creators desired." The figure reached out trembling fingers, plucking off the tattered rag from the boy's mouth. He responded gracefully, biting down on a couple of his digits, before letting go to spit out the foul taste. The man stumbled back, taken aback but not in pain, as the boy took the time to catch breaths of musty air. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Adoshua?" "Quick to see through the hearts of mortal men, aren't you Adriatus?" The boy struggled in his confines, kicking and shifting his whole body weight against the ropes setting him back against the cold, metal slate. Adoshua possessed no feeling, staring at his prisoner with dead eyes devoid of even the faintest of color. "You fucker, set me free this instant...!" "I would, but lives are at stake, if I must say." "What in the fuck are you trying to say? There are others here besides me?" The aged merchant spun in the direction of the exit, and with a click of his fingers, the lights flickered on. The boy was stunned by this sudden outburst of luminous flow, taking the time to adjust to the surroundings. He was in a facility of some sort. This confinement seemed... out of place with the times, smooth columns of obsidian holding with all their might, a pure white ceiling of marble. From his cage led to a series of stairs, cascading to an altar trimmed with gold and finished with a silver plating. Laid there was a man, daggers plunged through his abdomen, hands and feet spread out in a cross-like fashion. He seemed brutally beat down, bruises and wounds scattered across a worn body. "..." "Anything to say, my boy?" The boy didn't even need a glance, just the sounds of his muffled cries of help were enough. The man crucified, was none other than his caretaker for the past year, the man he had shared many memories with for the short span of life he had spent with them. His father. Eleven Rage, agony, a tinge of sorrow; these unearthly humours wrapped their ungodly appendages around the boy's thin neck, intoxicating and suffocating. His heart paced itself at irregular intervals, pumping against contracting lungs and broken ribs, as if it desired to escape an unholy prison. Adriatus choked, kneeling down onto the floor, one hand on the chest and the other clenched in the direction of Adoshua, fist punched out in seething anger. "Learn how to control your emotions, it isn't healthy for your frail body." "You fucking bastard." "Now now, don't go calling people names. No wonder you were a failure." Adoshua seemed possessed, limbs uncoordinated and flailing, as his body directed itself to the damned altar laying before Adriatus' eyes glowing an intense blue, a sea of emotional faults accompanying crashing waves. His anger burst out in a continuous stream of insults and curses upon the elderly tradesmith, who rose a hand to the air. An invisible hand sealed his mouth shut. "Do not interrupt the holy moment. The ground will tremble, the earth will shake: unleashing hell's beasts." "You are insane...!" "Not as crazed as the devil hiding within your soul." Encased within glass boundaries atop a ceramic pillar behind the altar, was a bracer. A translucent, aquatic bracer, floating peacefully within its terrifying confinements. The boy found comfort in the inanimate item, both of them placed in such horrible consequences. "Why are you doing this, even?" The man did not reply. "Hey..." "Answer me..." He stood still. "Answer. Me." His head lunged down, eyes soulless and lacking the blood-stricken lustre it had before. "NOW." The merchant's body crashed to the pale tiles, abdomen blown through, trickles of blood gushing from an open wound. The device reformatted to its owner, rusted iron appendages squeezing upon his arm, stabbing their cylinder members into blood vessels and pumping a volume of viscous, thick serum into his system. Veins bloated, organic threads revealing themselves from under the layer of skin in a pulsating blue. What held him back before, was too easy to break out of now, as the boy burst from his confines in a flash of cerulean blue, dashing to the sky. The ceiling crashed upon itself, as Adoshua creaked a last smile. Twelve The wafting scent of death filled such an intoxicating atmosphere, fumes that brought calamity and suffering were thrust upon Adriatus. The village, pillaged to ruin, plowed through and burnt to a crisp, utterly annihilated. Charred lumps of meat stacked upon each other, exposed craniums and an overdose of the deadliest smokey trails. The morning sky was painted black. The boy could not bear such a sight longer, and descended. He laid his guardian's body to the stone tiling, desperately patching up wound and applying pressure to areas of significant damage, where the fountain of scarlet blood decided to erupt. Oh so anguished and miserable, clutching to this feeble, diminishing orb of light, this faint hope that his father could be resuscitated. He pumped clenched hands against his chest, using every fiber of his being to direct the strength to his father's lifeless body. "Please..." His father's hand, grasped to his son's, as if a pleading wish to stop. Adriatus was too absorbed in the act of revival. His eyelids fluttered with a weak creak, using the last of his waning strength to even speak a word. "Adriatus, my boy..." The boy finally took notice, and instantly went to brush off dried flakes of blood off his father's face. He responded with a gentle, meek grin. "Father, it will be alright, I'll get us out of here soon." "There's... no need..." Adriatus paused for a second, and turned around with a bewildered expression. "Your mother... the bracer... linked by the string of fate..." "Father, we need to get out now." "No, my child..." "But-" "No buts." He settled down. "This is vital... I need to tell you this, my boy..." He hacked and coughed, but still continued. "A year ago, when... we found you by the riverside..." "Abandoned... and lost..." "Your mother wanted to take you in... naturally I was opposed... to that idea..." "I remember... the day your mother disappeared, the way I treated you after that... our reconciliation..." Adriatus never felt the need to pry into his origins, his past, life before the village. Now however, he listened on. He reached out a palm, caressing his son's cheeks. His grin before, turned into one of regret. "I'm sorry, my child... for I couldn't live long enough to see you grow..." "Dad, please, don't..." One drip, two. Tears shed uncontrollably. "The way I beat you down... was unacceptable as a parent... I know..." "No Dad, you're wrong..." "Our beliefs, a ruthless one... worshiping lies and deceptions veiled by questionable truths..." His hand drooped down, of which the boy grasped with strength. "Promise me one thing son..." "...anything." "Never believe..." "...believe?" The boy didn't get the answer he seeked, as the man minced his words, and met his child eye-to-eye, a final greeting. "Happy... first birthday." A man tender in life, a soul still passionate in death. His life, blown up in enrapturing flames. And so was the view which captivated the boy's eyes, who screamed into the heavens. Please, grant me power. Lusting for revenge, his ever-flowing wrath. Desire to consume, greed for sacrilegious strength. His slothful self slumped to the ground, drowned in sorrow. His pride shattered, vain throbbing painfully. And his call answered, not by a divine amalgamation, but by a power much more sinister. Thirteen The sound, faint. His vision enveloped by a sea of misty turquoise, blurred as if in an aquarium. The fog slowly cleared, into much more dull shades of beige, tints of an alabaster white and thick, hazy blue. These grew into more vicious hues, as his peepers focused, glass panels splashed and stained with a palette of vivid colors, a puzzle of brilliant shapes. The murmuring and chattering of maidens lingered. He tried to move, but even an inch bore too much pain. Partially burnt, was the state of his body, deep crimson lines of scarred flesh ever present. Unbearably agonizing, so much so that he attempted to cry out, but his shackled voice did not make even the slightest of a crackle. Ah, now he could see. Nuns scurrying throughout what seemed to be a run-down church. Desolate, it felt. Вы говорите по-русски? One of the pure hearted women approached him. Temporarily mute, he nodded. How are you feeling? Nod, and a smile. We've tried the very best, to ease your pain. Antiseptics to your wounds, and relief cream to horrible burns. He made an expression as if thanking the lady, whom replied humbly as if to say, "It's just our job". Regaining his sense of awareness, the boy questioned. Where is this place? St. Kreschen Hospice. He had never heard of the place. ...what happened to the Homunc district? A small village to the southwest of the major port. ...Homunc? We're in Moscow. ...Mos...cow? In a striking sudden, his terrible state worsened, convulsing in horrendous movements. These weren't nuns. They wore different outfits. This wasn't a church. The outline of the room was different. Apparatus he had never seen, contraptions which he never knew of, existed. And as the person beside him hurried off to men in white coats, the boy noticed one thing, that wasn't so different after all. The holy statue, a sacred idol. And as the son of God stood glorified, right hand pointing to the heavens, rather than peace, he felt something aching at his heart, a feeling reminiscent of the past, a foul and bitter taste that was so tender, yet irritatingly displeasing. Resentment. END.Category:Ultraman Touch (Continuity) Category:Fan Episodes Category:Crazybeard1234